Tears for Water
by Lady Josephina
Summary: My narrative of Quasimodo's trial and torture. Enjoy


The Palace of Justice  
1482

The Parisian Courthouse

A temple of impartiality that preached to a corrupt flock. Always busy, men shuffled in and out of the establishment.  
Their bony fingers eager to sign away a convict's life.  
"Bring in the prisoner!  
Quasimodo shuffled into the Courtroom. Bound by chains, he shivered with a sudden chill. Sleep still lingered in his uneven eye 

Why did they have to wake him so early!  
"Who is this?" rasped the judge.

"Quasimodo the bell-"  
"What? What?"The old man perched at the podium looked around dumbly. Indeed the poor hunchback was not the only one deaf as a post.  
It took several shouts by the bailiff until the magistrate understood. 

"Very well, ugly one. What is your name?"

The jurors chuckled to one another. Trials with this judge were always great fun.  
The poor hunchback had no idea he had been spoken to. His one good eye cast downward, he stared at his feet.

His attention was gathered at last when a soldier jabbed him in the side and pointed to the podium.

"Your age?" the blundering judge murmured.  
"Quasimodo!" the hunchback barked. He assumed the magistrate had asked his name. 

"Your profession?"

"Twenty years old!"

"You are accused of the attempted assault and kidnap of a lewd woman. How do you plead?"  
"Bellringer at Notre Dame!" 

At that moment, the magistrate caught a glimpse of the cackling jurors. He suddenly realized what a mockery he was making.

"Do you take me for a fool, beast?"

"Bellringer of Notre Dame!" the hunchback crowed again.  
"How dare you disgrace this court. Just for that, you shall be forced another hour on the pillory. Take him away!" 

The pillory.

A great wooden wheel perched atop a platform for everyone to see. This was to be the cruel torture that awaited the bewildered hunchback. His hands tightly bound, Quasimodo was lead through the jeering mob.

Two guards shackled his wrists to the floor of the wheel, forcing the bellringer to a kneeling position. Quasimodo grit his jagged teeth as a third guard cruelly yanked his shirt from his back, exposing his arching spine.

Suddenly all noise stopped as the torturer mounted the platform. His callused fingers reverently weaving through the many tails of the whip. Stroking it as if it were the locks of a fair maiden.

In the blink of an eye, the torturer's arm stood erect. The whip's tresses flailing in the air like the branches of a weeping willow.

A thunderous crack rang across the Place de Grieve as leather serpents bit into Quasimodo's flesh. His deformed face contorted by pain.

Again and again, the whip danced along his back. Blood ran freely in rivers down his shoulder blades. In the heat of the day, the stench of blood was thick in the air. Flies buzzed furiously around the pillory, stinging his back with their prickly legs.

Sooner or later, the assault on the hunchback came to an end. Cautiously Quasimodo opened his eyes. For the length of his flogging, he had drifted off into a trancelike state. With the onslaught over he was taken by surprise at the unusual calm.

But the silence would not last.

Like a horde of angry wasps, the crowd erupted in a fury. Every insult that lurked in the human vocabulary rained down upon the bound man.

"You image of antichrist!"

"You caused my cat to grow seven claws!"

"It was you! By just looking at her, made my wife to give birth to a two headed baby!"

As if sent by a saint, a familiar figure caught Quasimodo's eye. Perched on horseback was his adopted guardian, Claude Frollo. For a honey-sweet moment, he felt his savior had come.

With pleading eyes, the deformed bellringer gazed at the archbishop. But Frollo did not come. Turning up his nose, he took hold of the reins and rode off.

Sadness crept back into his soul, then rage, and finally despair.

Sweat now took the place of blood. His mouth so dry, it felt as though it were filled with sand. With a hoarse, guttural sound the hunchback spoke.

"SOME WATER!"

A tsunami of laughter rolled through the mob.

"SOME WATER!" Quasimodo roared again. But cruel taunting and jeers were his only answers.

"Water... please..."

Like a vision of heaven, another familiar face was coming toward him. The colorful form of a gypsy girl. As beautiful and graceful as a bird of paradise. The very child he had been told to kidnap two nights before.

"_Has she come to take revenge on me too?"_

But the Roma girl did not strike him. With great confidence she knelt by his side and looked into his face. There was no malice in her eyes.

Slowly her deft hands untied a gourd canteen from her waist and presented the spout to his lips.

He drank greedily, eager to douse the burning pain in his throat. With his thirst quenched, he looked to find a gentle smile on the young woman's face. He yearned to talk to her. To thank her graciously. But the words would not come.

The bohemian girl understood. With a tender hand, she reached up to stroke the prisoner's distorted cheek. Great tears formed in his one good eye as dry lips sowed kisses of gratitude into her hand.

"The hour is up. Release the prisoner!"

Two leather clad guards strode forward, cutting the ropes that bound the hunchback's hands. Quasimodo's fingers felt heavy and pendulous as they filled with blood. But he could not rise. His ankles as weak as gelatin. Looking up, he discovered the kind gypsy still by his side. His flesh tingled under her touch as she took hold of the tattered remains of his shirt. Trying her best to avoid the sores, she dressed Quasimodo's back with his torn garment.

"Merci..."

With a friendly smile, the girl turned on her heels and vanished into the crowd. A small white goat followed close behind.

"_Merci"_


End file.
